


such dear follies

by lamphouse



Series: chronicle of the world we share [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1930s, Explicit Consent, F/F, Genderswap, Interwar Period, Lots of romance, Non-Explicit Sex, Praise Kink, Reunions, Romance, Too Much Romance Probably, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 21:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamphouse/pseuds/lamphouse
Summary: Made holy by the incense of perfume,All unobserved and happy I'll confess— Radclyffe Hall, "An Interlude"Crowley knew it would be a little awkward at first when Aziraphale returned after a few years on assignment abroad. She just hadn't expected the angel to have actuallychanged.





	such dear follies

**Author's Note:**

> I feel the need to preface this by saying "it's the book it's the book it's the book" but I suppose that's a bit of a moot point in an au. it's still the book tho.

Aziraphale is wearing the most ridiculous tie.

Half an hour since Crowley had grabbed her and her landslide of luggage from the airstrip and she still can't get past it. Aziraphale is wearing a ridiculous tie— Aziraphale is wearing a _tie_ full stop, not one of those high-necked Edwardian monstrosities she holds so dear. No, she has on a tie and a crisp button-up and a boxy striped jacket that matches her skirt.

A _tie_.

Crowley spares a token glance for the speed limits and fiddles with her new stereo, which Aziraphale still hasn't commented on. No, she just sits there, humming at whatever news is being aired in lieu of looming constitutional crises and international conflict and missing every one of Crowley's wide-eyed glances in her direction.

Sure, she still has that stuffy librarian air, the worn earrings and that hint of sternness in her eyes Crowley unfortunately adores, but Aziraphale, in a tie! Baffling. (And also a bit insulting, given how much effort Crowley put into her outfit, vest and long ribbon-y bow tie chosen to impress, and here the angel is making the earth spin backward with a single thoughtless accessory.)

When they get to Crowley's, she hops out first and crosses to help Aziraphale out of the Bentley. It's a fairly obvious excuse to hold her hand, and stupid, really, they're both wearing gloves, but Crowley does it anyway, imagining she can feel Aziraphale's warmth in ten seconds through two layers of leather.

She lets go after the polite amount of time, avoiding eye contact first by pulling off her glove to rub her eye with a fist and then by staring resolutely at the pavement. There she is confronted by Aziraphale's shoes, who take the title of second worst offender. The brown leather oxfords have scuffs around the heels even though it's not two years Aziraphale's been on assignment, roaming France, lessening poverty or whatever angels do. Aziraphale is so particular about her clothes and she takes care of them fastidiously, so for them to be already showing signs of wear is unheard of. Added to the tie, it's almost properly worrisome.

While fixated on said shoes Crowley misses Aziraphale taking the keys from her other hand, gloves brushing again unfeelingly. She rejoins the world as Aziraphale wrenches open the Bentley's back door.

"So, Belgravia still." Aziraphale tugs her last case from the footwell. "I'd have thought you'd be moved by now, you're always so noncommittal when it comes to real estate."

"Well I know how you cope with change." With a flash of smirking teeth, Crowley gives it enough of a twist to hide its earnestness.

"Excuse me for valuing days gone by," Aziraphale volleys back.

Her trunk has already untied and set itself on the sidewalk when Crowley waves away the nervous valet on the steps. Aziraphale's horde of souvenirs is undoubtedly all books and sweets that will be taken back to hers anyway, but she's nattering on about all the little things she's brought back that Crowley must see, so in they come. A hopeful glance from her is all it takes for the demon to grab the nearest handle with token grousing, swinging open the door of the townhouse with a thought as she goes.

Once inside Crowley throws her hat at the banister post with a sigh. An awkward clatter signals Aziraphale dragging the rest of her bags and trunk into the door frame, which Crowley ignores in favor of the mail and papers on the entryway table. It's more than she expected, to be honest, but gossip columns were invaluable (riotously funny as well), just look what Lady Montaine's up to now.

Aziraphale appears in her periphery soon enough, though, tugging off her gloves, at which point Crowley decides to do the proper thing and take her coat.

"You look positively modern, angel," she says as Aziraphale shakes herself free of her sleeves. The familiar feel of camel hair and its embedded Shalimar scent are two contrary pieces of evidence (though the latter had only replaced her bottomless, ancient cologne after three years of wheedling) but she perseveres, "Ready to renounce your obsession with all things olden?"

"Thank you, my dear, and no." Aziraphale straightens her jacket and tie. "I simply appreciate the ease of recent developments in fashion. Much less fiddly without all those unnecessary buttons and laces."

Crowley, who on more than one occasion had called upon the angel to help her undress under said guises, smiles knowingly at her back as Aziraphale hangs her coat by Crowley's. Something about the abstract shape of their coats hanging side by side in the corner of her eye, what the symbol might be read as, tugs a string in her heart.

When Aziraphale turns back, Crowley has schooled her face and unhooked her sunglasses so her wink is seen as she says, "We'll have you in trousers soon enough."

Aziraphale blushes and frowns, as she does, and Crowley busies herself with pushing aside the letters from equally deluded suitors and debt collectors in favor of the lone package. Ripping open brown paper, a stack of fresh LPs meets her grin, colorful script promising rising jazz stars and such. Contrary to conservative thought there was nothing inherently demonic about any of them; Crowley just thought they were neat.

The gleaming phonograph in the corner snaps to attention when it finds its needle on vinyl, and soon the dulcet pop-and-crackling of Al Bowlly (the tamest of the lot, but better to ease the angel into it, and bloody everyone loves Al Bowlly) fills the hall.

Aziraphale smiles at the lyrics, her nose scrunched with the pleased twinge she gets whenever Crowley references anything about angels no matter how often Crowley protests that it's not that deep or that it's an accident, as it often honestly is.

Before she can say anything, though, Crowley feigns indifference and pulls a stack of letters from the ether. "I dropped by to steal your whiskey and couldn't get the door open, there was so much piled up under the slot."

"Oh, well thank you."

They flip though envelope after envelope, almost shoulder to shoulder, for not that long. It hadn't been that bad—she'd really only taken the stack in case she needed an excuse to invite Aziraphale over, now a moot point, and so she feels a little self-conscious at having made such a big deal out of it.

The companionable silence continues, though, as Aziraphale sets down her unopened envelopes and offers the demon her (declined) cigarillo case. Crowley still offers her a light, distracted somewhat by the bit of Aziraphale's neck revealed by her hair as she tilted into the flame. She means to look away but finds herself frozen as pure white smoke escapes the angel's mouth like ink in water. It's not that Crowley's forgotten how it looks, living in a city of addicts that includes herself, but knowing it's Aziraphale makes the sight, the smell, the taste of it lingering in the air different. More beautiful.

Aziraphale misunderstands her easily caught staring and glances wearily at the ceiling. "I _have_ been attempting to quit, you know."

Casting about for a retort, Crowley takes a drag herself, careful to touch only paper as she steals it from Aziraphale's grip. The proximity negates her ability to think, however, so she just manages to gasp out, "We all have our vices," as she chokes.

If Aziraphale has the admonishing look such a line provokes, Crowley doesn't see it as Aziraphale takes a bag into the drawing room without a backwards glance.

"I'm sure you do," she says as she moves down the hall. "Did you set out that book I asked after? Because I found this when I was in the nineteenth arrondissement watching over this immigrant family, which is a story for another time..."

Aziraphale trails off as she enters the sitting room, Crowley following after as she straightens her vest nervously and tries not to feel like the clunk of her shoes in the tile is ominous.

"I thought we might go out," Crowley calls after her. "Reintroduce you to the city as it were."

She knows she'll get no answer when she rounds the corner to see Aziraphale reunited with her most precious collection. The bookcases there are all Aziraphale's, because only Aziraphale could have an entire property for the sole purpose of storing her books and still insist on overtaking Crowley's space with earnest arguments about how she couldn't keep the truly important works there, dear girl, what if someone tries to rob her, goodness.

"Ah, here." She takes her new volume and its counterpart over to the desk, which Crowley quickly miracles clean of lingering unsent letters addressed to Aziraphale herself. "Now this is interesting. Now both are first editions, technically, but you see here—"

"Angel."

"Hm?"

The phonograph follows them into the room, swapping in something much more boisterous that Aziraphale wrinkles her nose at, silencing it.

Careful to fix her expression before she's in sight, Crowley leans against the adjacent bookcase. "What do you say? The clubs open in a few hours, you've been gone long enough that not recognizing the music won't even be your fault."

"Oh, not tonight, darling." Setting down her books, Aziraphale stares wistfully at the windows and cradles an ashtray. "All I want is a—"

"A long bath and a short novel." Crowley sighs and paces back over to the piano in the opposite corner. "Yes, I know."

Aziraphale frowns a tiny frown. "I like baths."

"You like music too," Crowley adds with a few plunked notes and what she hopes is a beguiling smile. "And booze." She shuts the fall board, staring at her watery reflection in the polish. "And me, still. Hopefully."

That gets Aziraphale's attention, or rather her Attention. Crowley already had the first, it being what's necessary for polite conversation, but the second she had worried about. Being as she was, Aziraphale had the ability to focus in on people to the point where no minuscule gesture, no inflection went unnoticed, tuning in to their personal wavelength. It was a freakish, unnerving experience, and at Crowley's request she didn't use it often (it was like her bones were being bleached in the sun, horrid feeling), so Crowley must be acting off enough to warrant real concern.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, walking nearer.

"Aziraphale," Crowley replies, then quickly, so as to dismiss any seriousness, like the parent to a child, "dancing, human contact?"

"Of course I do, but—"

"Or what, you'd rather feed the ducks, catalog your books, the things you always do?"

Aziraphale keeps staring, though a glint of annoyance slips into her eyes.

"I've been steeped in human contact for two years straight," she says, continuing forward. She glances away from the demon for a moment to make sure she doesn't knock into a lamp on her way, concentration shifting just as a cloud outside moves on. The sun's always come in at an odd angle that never quite fills the room, but now it perfectly washes Aziraphale's curls into a fuzzy halo, fittingly enough.

It's an unfortunately stunning image only made more powerful by its familiarity. Crowley had almost forgotten the way Aziraphale always keeps it pinned down in the back, tamed on top for the hat she's always forgetting.

After assuring the lamp is fine, Aziraphale adds, "I admit, I'm a little worn out by the constant press of human neediness."

And when she looks up, the light frames her face, offering only the suggestion of features Crowley now remembers knowing so well. She's suddenly overwhelmed and blurts out, "Good thing I'm not human."

"I—" Aziraphale stumbles over the mental script she's obviously following, so much that she physically stops too. "Well, yes."

"So... you know," Crowley says weakly, blinking a considerable amount even for someone who needs to. "There's that."

Aziraphale leans carefully against the back of the nearest sofa, her hands clasped behind her now gripping the wooden edge of it. Before Crowley can ask what she's thinking or offer a new topic or, better yet, run away, Aziraphale looks up from her shoes to Crowley's eyes and says softly, "It's been some time, my dear."

"Not _so_ long." Crowley wills her face to remain unchanged but, given the angel's sympathetic head tilt, fails disastrously.

"I only mean..."

Crowley glances away as she fails to continue, but can't help looking back. There's an unexpected wistfulness in the way Aziraphale is already looking back, one that twists in Crowley's chest with inexplicable guilt.

"I've missed you," Aziraphale finishes. "Life is considerably duller without your wiles."

If Crowley were a cleverer woman-shaped being she'd have a quip ready about which wiles exactly Aziraphale missed so much. But she isn't clever, not when it comes to this, and so simply lets herself do what she's tried not to and lets their lips find each other's.

It takes no effort, neither for that nor for Aziraphale's hands to slide into the hair at the base of Crowley's neck and Crowley's to grip the edge of Aziraphale's jacket.

"Angel," she manages to murmur between kisses, then again when Aziraphale moves to kiss across her cheeks. "Angel." The feeling of those wonderful diligent fingers again on her skin runs down Crowley's mind like a shiver.

"I know." Aziraphale leans back to look her in the eye. "Really, Crowley, I do."

There's this glow around Aziraphale when they're together, Crowley's forgotten—not literally, but a general sense of glowing. She seems to radiate something warm and bright and a touch inhuman that both makes Crowley want to flinch away and lean in with equal intensity. The idea of a glow. Crowley can feel it in the spread of Aziraphale's hands across her shoulders, something preternatural, like the last light of a sun set behind the hills, scattered by the atmosphere, but the sun is a zealous virtue.

Crowley chases it closely as she says, "I..."

"Yes."

At the word, Crowley's hands slide down, over the heavy fabric of Aziraphale's skirt, the clips of her stockings underneath. Crowley knows she could skip this, go back to kissing and touching and getting reacquainted in ways that involve no other type of vulnerability than physical, and Aziraphale would let her get away with not saying anything (or rather, understand what is being said without acknowledging its unsaid-ness), and life would carry on, but...

Well, Crowley would _like_ to have the words out there, so after one more kiss she pulls away again to say plainly, "I missed you."

Aziraphale smiles, her thumb brushing Crowley's cheek gently glancing a wilting curl. Her eyes squint as she ducks in with a quiet glee. "And I you."

Again she kisses Crowley's face, who blushes even as she protests, "You said that already."

"And would you believe it," Aziraphale says with a grin not befitting her angelic status, "I meant it just as much the second time."

Crowley kisses her then to shut her up, stop the slow failure of her internal organs at the sight of that grin on this angel) who could blame her? Not Aziraphale, given the way she too leans further onto her counterpart. One kiss turns into three into too many small, breathless ones to keep count of, until they're stumbled onto the sofa without Crowley quite remembering how they got there.

Aziraphale leans back into the stylishly uncomfortable cushions, Crowley mentally thanking human ingenuity for the invention of trousers as she straddles Aziraphale's lap. Her hands automatically seek out the back of the sofa and she spares half a thought for the familiar feel of oak and linen, this particular pattern new since Aziraphale's departure and yet well-known in an action repeated so many nights, mornings, etcetera before.

She loses the ability to think at all, of course, when Aziraphale gets the tips of her fingers under Crowley's waistband and draws her even closer.

Her own hands migrate to Aziraphale's hair where a few loosed pins are still enough to set the whole thing tumbling down. Crowley feels herself melt that much more at the curls falling over her hands, a heavy presence yet still lighter than air, and her fingers flex as her mouth catches Aziraphale's quiet keen before it can fall.

"Don't—" Aziraphale pulls away, interrupted by the clatter of pins on the end table (where no one can sit on them). "Mm, thank you."

Though her lips slide easily back into place, she pulls away again soon to press smooth kisses down Crowley's neck, her hands tugging at the hems of the demon's shirt and vest.

Crowley then experiences a flicker of prophetic clarity; she knows what happens next. Aziraphale will pull away to concisely undo Crowley's trousers, Crowley will complain about the unbalance between their states of undress until they even the score, and they'll lie down with far-too-earnest things until there are no words left.

Right on time, Aziraphale pulls away to mutter, "Don't see why these things have to be so complicated."

Crowley rests her head atop Aziraphale's for a moment, response ready on her tongue when her hands slide down to Aziraphale's shirt buttons and find her stupid tie.

The tie. Deep purple with little dotted fireworks of vermilion. Cotton, she now feels, with a familiar necklace under it.

"Aziraphale."

"Well, I'm a bit out of practice."

"Angel."

"What is it?" She asks at Crowley's preoccupied expression. 

Crowley thoughtfully flops the fabric around. "Since when do you wear ties?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale brightens. "Yes, oh, Crowley, you'll like this. I was in a cafe, strictly business, I assure you—"

Drawing her fingers through Aziraphale's hair fondly to distract herself, Crowley huffs. "Oh I'm sure."

"Anyway, I'd dropped my things in a puddle on the way there and the proprietor simply refused to take waterlogged money, but a woman at the table next to cover it in exchange for my wrinkled bills. She hadn't the right change, however, so she insisted I take this as well. Took it right off her own neck." Aziraphale smooths it down with a smile. "I was going to give it away, but after trying it on I quite thought it suited me."

It's a very Aziraphale story—charming, somewhat clumsy, with the goodness of strangers at the heart of it—but something about it sours on Crowley's tongue. Something like jealousy for a woman she'd never met, that Aziraphale barely had, a woman who could be anyone but by virtue of the fact that she wasn't Crowley was therefore something to be envied. (It doesn't help that Crowley is picturing a real Marlene Dietrich type, proven to drive anyone mad with jealousy regardless of context.)

"I was thinking I might get suspenders," Aziraphale continues obliviously as she glances down at herself. "Regardless of their undoubted utility, I think they look smart."

Crowley smooths her hand over the top of Aziraphale's head calmingly, mostly for her own benefit. The motion reclaims the angel's attention before Crowley is ready, though, and she knows her explanatory smile comes out a grimace so switches tactics.

"You'd get them caught on everything imaginable," she points out. "That'll hurt big time."

Aziraphale doesn't buy it for a moment. "What is it now?"

"Nothing," Crowley says, sharper than she meant to. She rolls off Aziraphale's lap, dodging hands, and walks calmly (i.e. with nervous speed) across the room. "Just remembered, I have a temptation at the foreign affairs office this afternoon, can't miss it, precise timing and all..."

Quickly tucking in her shirt, Crowley feels like the tragic heroine of some stupid penny novelette, but now that she's doing it no amount of embarrassment can stop her. The glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace doesn't help; hair sticking up in odd places, lipstick smudged, collar and vest askew and half-unbuttoned, all topped off by the sheen of anxiousness in her yellow eyes. The surprising drama of it makes her forget she can miracle it all away.

"I look like a _tart_ ," she says to her now shocked reflection, momentarily forgetting also that Aziraphale is in the room.

"You're not a _tart_ ," Aziraphale echoes in dismay, standing with an awkwardly jerky start. For some reason she looks miles better, though whether that's Crowley's bias, a miracle on the angel's part, or her own innate put-together-ness is up for debate. At least she's lost her jacket. "Honestly, Crowley, what's—"

Crowley shakes her head again roughly, but Aziraphale has already stopped, sensing the underlying seriousness.

"You know, you've been gone quite a long time," Crowley says accusatorily. As a distraction it is perfectly terrible, in fact skipping over the surface issue she'd been trying to avoid and straight to the bigger worry underneath. "Jumping right back into things, it's not..."

"Two years out of nearly six thousand," Aziraphale offers. "It doesn't sound so bad when you put it that way."

"It doesn't change how living it felt," Crowley counters, "all those hours, one by one."

Even after some time away, there is no part of Crowley that wouldn't recognize immediately the way Aziraphale's spine straightens, the unmistakable warning sign of the angel's stubbornness coming to the forefront. It's an omen the demon had had to learn early on lest she find herself with icy frowns and doors shut in her face (no matter how good the wine she was carrying). In the present context it's less than heartening.

"Really, my dear," Aziraphale says with an amount of frustration. "It's not as though you were alone in that. Of course I missed you too, most of every hour of every day, it—" She runs out of steam, her next words coming out with a wretched tinge. "You know, every morning would be a disappointment because I'd go to bed and dream of simply waking up next to you."

Crowley can't help but laugh. "You slept?"

"Like I said." Aziraphale half smiles, reaching out for Crowley's hands. "There I would see you."

Not having been directly exposed to them for two years, Crowley has lost her high tolerance for Aziraphale's random, dreadful, earnest endearments. She feels a blush she can't quite control and a smile she certainly can't fill face, her head wriggling in an attempt to physically escape the feeling.

"That was a bit much, wasn't it?" Aziraphale says, her own smile sheepish but radiant.

"S'always a bit much, angel." Crowley folds herself over, arms around Aziraphale's shoulders and face pressed against her neck. "You wouldn't be you if you weren't."

"Well I hope that's alright then," Aziraphale says as her hands press neatly into Crowley's waist. "I can't be anyone but me."

Crowley leans her upper half back to get a good look at Aziraphale, her stubborn angel, her other half. "Very alright," she says, not bothering to roll her eyes when adding, "obviously."

There is a different light in Aziraphale's eyes then, not the twinkle of a funny story or the flames of corporal passion. This is something different all together, something deeper and warmer, like a fire kindled in a distant cave out of the wind. It could burn her down but only illuminates her from the inside out—and Crowley knows this because she feels it too. She tries to fit everything, this feeling and understanding and firelight, into the kiss she draws Aziraphale up into, knowing it would never all fit but that there will be plenty more time to cover the finer points.

Aziraphale kisses back like she already knows (because she does, of course) with her head tilted up and her arm around Crowley's back. Her thumb carefully removes the last smears of lipstick around Crowley's mouth, disguised as a gentle caress. Crowley's lips part further in response, not missing the double effect by any means but not caring.

"Dearest," Aziraphale pulls back just enough to speak, thankfully, as Crowley no longer has control over her knees, "love, may I touch you?"

Crowley flushes, embarrassed mostly by her own reaction and internally swearing in four languages at once, and nods, "Yeah, yes."

They stand still for a moment as Aziraphale redoes all the work Crowley had undone, Crowley herself content with her hands under the angel's shirt. Aziraphale stills slightly as Crowley's fingers flexing tenderly against the warmth they find there. Still unwilling to part, they move back to the sofa with blind carefulness.

They fall, of course, with eyes wide and suddenly giddy. Crowley feels the opposite of drunk, dizzily sober and grinning like a madwoman. She'd worry about her demonic image if it weren't for the fact that Aziraphale was the only one there to see and already had an irreparably soft view of the demon. Pulling Aziraphale closer by her tie—which, upon further consideration, she likes quite a bit, and vows to buy Aziraphale more of, miles and miles of ties, whatever she wants—she sways closer and whispers only, "Love you," but Aziraphale gets the idea.

"So you've said," Aziraphale says, unmoving beyond her smile softening.

"Angel." Crowley kisses her quickly before pulling away to pout.

"You know I love you more than words can fully convey." Aziraphale kisses her again, then again, pushing Crowley's shirt off her shoulders. "Is that what you wanted to hear? That I adore you beyond human comprehension?"

Crowley only flushes and nods, the latter stopping quickly as Aziraphale comes to kiss her temple. She tugs on the tie one last time as she leans back into the sofa.

Aziraphale follows her as she continues, "And you know why, of course."

"Might as well remind me." Crowley's voice is hoarse as she nuzzles Aziraphale's cheek. Again she finds herself the more undressed of the two. How it happens, she never knows—maybe Aziraphale's just more diligent, this _would_ be the one thing she's not a lazy bastard about—but for the second time today Crowley's in the lead vis-à-vis items of clothing undone. She gives up her newfound obsession with that ridiculous tie in favor of getting Aziraphale's shirt out of the way as soon as possible, evening the score button by carefully mended button.

Aziraphale has a similar idea, it seems, as she considerately tosses Crowley's vest and blouse toward the nearest armchair. They've slid down to completely horizontal, boxed in by the arms of the sofa, but Crowley knows without looking that she's missed the mark. Not that Crowley minds; she has more pressing matters to attend to.

"Besides the obvious, of course," lips meet cheekbone, ear, and jaw, "your goodness, your bravery, your shoulders and your neck..." A kiss to the last with the mention of teeth.

Crowley feels Aziraphale give up and vanish her trousers rather than make her stand and do it herself. Her eyes have been shut since Aziraphale starting started talking, but she knows by the sudden coolness on her legs and the sun and shadow of Aziraphale moving over her.

The shadow stays, though, and in the accompanying lull Crowley opens her eyes.

Aziraphale smiles down at her; with her hair tucked behind one ear, she looks disgustingly beatific. The most beautiful sight anyone has ever seen and she's there, running her hand down Crowley's arm.

"What I missed most of all," she continues, "in our unfortunately necessary time apart, was... your unfaltering optimism."

The sound Crowley makes can't be conveyed even onomatopoetically, but it's like a cat's mewl if cats, like tires, could have the air let out of them. Trying to gloss over said sound, she tugs at the zip on Aziraphale skirt, which (much like its owner) both is stubborn and yields easily to Crowley. _Goodbye, mine enemy_ , Crowley thinks blithely to herself as said owner gives her a long kiss, _thank you for your service_.

"I'm much more pragmatic, you know," Aziraphale says when the learned need to breathe kicks in again, "without you to balance me out. You see the worst in the world and yet always choose to believe the best of it. Sometimes," her voice drops even further, "I think I can do no better than I do with you whispering in my ear."

It shouldn't be sexy, it shouldn't be sexy, it really should _not_ be as sexy as it is but it _is_ , and Crowley wouldn't want to help the shiver that slips down her back even if she could.

"Feels like that's a trait you should've gotten," Crowley mumbles as Aziraphale's hand catches briefly in her hair. "Cosmic genetic lotto."

Luckily Aziraphale chooses to respond without words for a moment, instead dotting long kisses across Crowley's chest. Crowley cranes her head to follow, not minding how Aziraphale's curls stick to her lips. She smells like stale airplane air, chai, and something Crowley had thought was the dust on every inch of Aziraphale's shop but now thinks might be her underneath everything else. Eventually she'll ponder the possibility that the angel actually attracts dust, but her mind is busy and so only marvels at the fact that it's all the same.

"Angel," escapes from her lips regardless and is met by wide eyes, the honest press of forehead to forehead, and, "My dear."

Aziraphale's hands drift with a leisure that Crowley couldn't hope to even fake, running down the valley between her ribs to her stomach, which only doesn't flinch because she's holding her breath. Then said hands do something particularly clever, to which Crowley responds in kind, and words are generally abandoned (aside from breathy declarations of love, which can never be helped with them) as touches take their turn.

A few blocks away, a junior diplomat walks home from lunch and, stopping on the corner for a passing bus, realizes where to find the funds for the refugee program his superiors had been about to give up on. Elsewhere, a baby's fever finally breaks, leaving mother and child in quiet relief for the first time in days. Which of the occult beings in the sitting room is responsible for which is impossible to say, but apropos of none of these, a neighborhood church rings out the time.

After some improbably easy reshuffling and unnecessary breathing, they end up with Aziraphale on her back and Crowley tucked into her side, long limbs wound around the angel like the limbed equivalent of a snake, a koala or something.

"You," Crowley says, haphazardly bopping Aziraphale on the nose, "are a hedonist, angel, plain and simple."

Rather than argue the point, Aziraphale hums noncommittally.

"Should've known that back when the Poetess herself was hand feeding you grapes," Crowley continues, "but seeing it firsthand always drives it home."

This earns her a glare, which Aziraphale twists her head around for to make sure Crowley gets the full impact. "Really. Must you bring that up right now?"

It's undermined by the fact that Aziraphale still hasn't stopped her hands wandering up and down Crowley's back and sides. Plus there's the fact that it was nothing against Crowley's bulletproof stellar mood right now anyway.

"I don't suppose you go around ravishing women on their sofas too often then."

"I don't make a habit of it," Aziraphale says, one hand drifting dangerously close to Crowley's ticklish side, the other still firm on her thigh to keep her from escaping. The care with which she brushes back the hair over Crowley's ear, however, shows her metaphorical hand. "Only the special ones. Or one, rather."

Crowley shifts to hide her crooked grin in Aziraphale's shoulder, not daring to say a word lest she fall off the sofa in shock at her own happiness. The silence buys her time to think as well as bask, although her thoughts are less witty retorts and more sappy things she plans to do for Aziraphale later.

"I suppose I'll have to take two baths now," Aziraphale says eventually, her frown belying her affection for the act in question. "One for actual cleaning up before— Ah. Right."

Crowley lowers her hand and, now that both they and their remaining clothes are comfortably clean again, shifts to lean over Aziraphale. "You were saying?"

The light changes with a cloud overhead, dimming the disgustingly perfect glow around her so that Crowley can see her face again. Half a reprimand lingers there, the one about "doing things the human way," but Crowley cuts it off with an easy, lingering kiss. Crowley finds her mouth opening as Aziraphale's does too, but neither move away as all the feeling of a proper kiss funnels down into the few places they still touch. Lighter than anything earthly, Aziraphale's thumb rests on Crowley's chin, her fingers curled underneath it. Her nails, as always, are perfect and their cool, smooth edges graze Crowley's throat with no motive at all.

The quiet is rice paper thin but Crowley dips her head to bring that thumb to her lips, so slow it's hardly happening at all. She can feel every ridge of Aziraphale's thumbprint on the tip of her tongue, wet and warm and barely there. Yet no part of it is precisely sexual; no, it is close to such a degree that it almost begs to be covered up with sex so as to escape that pesky feeling of intimacy.

When the feeling becomes too much for even them to bear, Crowley presses a quick, close-mouthed kiss to Aziraphale's finger, then above her breast, right where the top of her heart is and her head then rests. The sounds of the midday world filter back into their room as Crowley wriggles closer in Aziraphale's arms, where the angel's fingers resume their lazy tracing around her bra. The thrum of buses and pedestrians arrive on the last of the summer breeze, whose coolness only makes the warmth between their bodies that much nicer. Basking it is, then, until the bells in the distance claim another hour.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale starts in the voice that means she wants something.

Crowley, having heard her mental calculations of how long before its polite to ask about lunch, cuts to the chase. "Best find some clothes before the housekeeper wanders in."

"What—"

"Although the looks on your faces might be worth it," she continues as she stands and summons a silken robe with a gesture, "I genuinely think Mrs. H wouldn't survive such an encounter."

Aziraphale sits up with a disapproving frown that wrinkles her forehead, wrinkles which Crowley bends to kiss away. In partial appeasement she hands Aziraphale her shirt from the nearby floor, miracling back a lost button before she can notice. Despite Crowley's best attempts at courtesy, the rest of Aziraphale's clothes have ended up rather all over the place, and Crowley manages to pocket the tie while she rummages around for her skirt.

"Thank you, darling."

The image of Aziraphale rebuilds itself with her usual efficiency. Before she finishes, however, Crowley drapes the tie around her undone collar and pulls her into a kiss with an edge of grazing eyeteeth meant to cover up its overwhelming fondness. It doesn't, of course, but Aziraphale doesn't mention it, her hand steady on Crowley's jaw to keep her close even as she pulls away blushing.

"Bath and then lunch?" Crowley ties off her belt decisively. "On me, of course. I assume all you've got is francs."

"You assume correctly," Aziraphale says as she tilts her head in fond acknowledgement.

The hand she offers is used to pull her into a (very) rough approximation of a dance, accompanied by something slower on the phonograph and the afternoon sunlight—and, of course, her demon, humming through her smile.

"And after lunch," Crowley leans in quite close to Aziraphale's ear, close enough to feel her own breath, "you can give me a tour of the rest of your new wardrobe."

The smile she gets in response both says Aziraphale knows what she means and promises even more.

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't even the 30s fic I wanted to write, I wanted to do some jeeves & wooster type shenanigans, but at least I finally wrote smut! big day for me. this one's dedicated to my 14yo self, too deep in the closet to recognize the alex kingston anna chancellor ineffable wives they deserved. happy belated pride I guess lmao
> 
> title from the same poem as the epigraph, "[an interlude](http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49321)" by radclyffe hall, which I yelled about for a while when rereading it after finishing the first draft. honorable mention to "the two angels" also bc, like crowley, I think I'm clever, but the tone was all wrong
> 
> and speaking of! the al bowlly song mentioned is "[got a date with an angel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z8IMyKat4JM)" & you can imagine whatever swing tune you like for crowley's choice, but I was thinking of first "[let's dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wA7vhHbXq6I)" (which would not be committed to vinyl for another three years but bc crowley assumed there was a record to buy so there very well was) and "[moonglow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4dm3Ml9g_cs)" (one of my favorite songs lol and the best version of which would have JUST been released by the fall of 1936), both by benny goodman. you could also substitute some billie holiday, I love her.
> 
> anyway I've started already three other little things set in this slightest of aus so you can look forward to those, and by little I mean probably this length or longer as I will undoubtedly get carried away lmao. whatever! chase your bliss!
> 
> tumblr @[lamphous](http://lamphous.tumblr.com)


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